Campesino.com
20 - 24 September, Ian & a return to a
previous question
In at least one of the Morocco entries I
questioned whether there is a distinctive quality to being, say, Moroccan or
whether we aren't just all simply incomplete Americans. The same set of
questions has been on my mind here recently, and for many of the same reasons.
One thing I can say with more confidence now is that different places are
really
different. Occasionally these differences can
be boiled down, as they are in The Economist's
World in
Figures book, to statistical facts, which may
not have the stark simplicity that the typography implies but are nonetheless
carrying some kinds of important truth. Some statistics seem pretty easy to
establish: for example eight of the world's ten highest mountains are (at least
partly) in Nepal. Other statistics are clearly questionable: for example, the
country with ostensibly the highest per capita rates of both serious assault and
theft is Australia, but this is complicated by the varying definitions of
crimes, willingness to report and police admin efficiency throughout the world.
In between these extremes of clarity lie most of the interesting statistics.
The 15 countries with the lowest life expectancy are all in Africa. Eight of
the ten countries with the highest percentage of 15 year old males who watch
more than four hours of TV per day in the week are in the former Soviet Union.
(The top spot goes to the Ukraine, and the USA and Israel make up the other top
ten places.) The six countries with the most male populations are all found on
the Arabian peninsula, led by the United Arab Emirates with an astounding 190
males per 100 females.
These are the lucky nuggets of information that can be expressed in relative empirical measures. But if you travel with your eyes open you don't need mathematics to see how peoples' lives vary by geography.
On Thursday Michelle took the girls and me on an errand to the local school in Chugchilan for children from the age of 6 and upwards. While there are children who didn't start school until later than normal and remain there until they are as old as 16, most of the kids move to the next school up at age 12 or 13. School attendance has only recently become compulsory in Ecuador up to age 9. The school day at the school we visited runs from 7:30 to 12:30 with a 30 minute break. The early start is especially severe for those children who have to walk 2.5 to 3 hours to get there. There are 285 students and 7 teachers so class sizes range from 30 to 50. The state provides only the buildings and the teachers' salaries, leaving parents to pay not only for uniforms but also for books and other materials.
We caught the kids on their break, when they were variously running around the playground, playing soccer and eating chocolate-covered bananas or sugary snacks. The kids are tiny: a nine year old boy was dwarfed by Zoe and Heidi who sandwich him in age; the children whom we'd assumed were about three are at all least six.
There is, though, nothing remotely backwards about the material that they're expected to learn. The syllabuses for all subjects are compiled into a single book for each year group, which not only makes a very sensible economy but also forms a satisfying embodiment of the corpus of required knowledge. We browsed and borrowed the books for Heidi's age, Zoe's age and for the older children. I have the Key Stage Two maths syllabus with me from home and the Ecuadorian equivalent is at least as advanced. The elder children, most of whom seem destined to spend their adult days drying corn in the sun and beating seeds from lupin pods with sticks, are taught to be able to extract the square roots of large numbers (e.g. 447,890) that are not exact squares - without a calculator, if you try to do it yourself!
The non-mathematics subjects, from what I can gather reading through the illustrated Spanish, have an admirable treatment of scientific and socio-political topics encountered in everyday life. In a nation whose people are in direct contact with the land for subsistence, some of whose regions we are advised by our government not to visit for fear of volcanic activity and that has relatively recently been at war with its neighbours, contexts for this present themselves perhaps more naturally than they do at home.
In these rural communities, unlike in the towns, there is no local capability to teach the luxuries of English or computing, although Michelle does a little of the latter with the older children.
One topic common to England and Ecuador is nutrition, which everyone reports to be atrocious here, with most of the locals apparently unaware that vegetables should be expected to supplement a diet predominantly formed of starch. (This is one of the many reasons why the Black Sheep Inn is so venerated by travellers - the meals are healthy, varied, filling and tasty.)
Speaking to the issue that at home, amidst the emerging post-Thatcher consensus on educational values, still most separates the muesli-belt metro-socialists and the repressed and repressing Right, children here entering their teenage years are expected to know not only the raw "facts of life" in their aspirational setting of conservative family values but are also taught about homosexuality, transexuality, rape, paedophilia, transvestism and sado-masochism. It's my impression that the church has far less popular influence in Ecuador than it does in other South American countries and that Christian values are idly observed, if at all. Michelle estimates that about 35-40% of couples with children here are unmarried and that there is in addition to this a very high incidence of mothers bringing up children without a father.
A good illustration of the low-impact way in which the people around here have integrated Christianity into their lives is provided by La Mama Negra festival that we saw in Latacunga yesterday. This runs for these four days, when it's primarily targeted at the locals who have finished all of the year's reaping and sowing and are in town for the market. It's re-run in November when there are more gringos kicking around. Even without the festival, the journey to Latacunga would have been worthwhile. We travelled with a new volunteer at the BSI called Jason, whose chattiness and Spanish were both very welcome, and our driver, who had the great Odysseyan name of Nestor (we should have had this name down on our list in case we'd had a boy). The journey took us along the rough road to Quilotoa (from where Paula and I have now both twice walked to the Black Sheep Inn), then to Zumbahua (whose market we visited earlier this month) and then by tarmac road over to Latacunga. After leaving Zumbahau the road rises to 4,000m and everywhere the campesinos can be seen dressed traditionally and driving cattle or working the fields. Yesterday many of them had llamas; on the way back one tiny boy tried to ride his llama, only to be thrown off.
In Latacunga we went first to Nestor's house, which was compact, clean and comfortable and decorated in what we might see as a frilly 1970's kitsch. We picked up Nestor's wife, Mercedes, and drove to a spot convenient for the festivities. En route we passed through a police line, which Mercedes and Nestor seemed to tell the young officers they had no intention of respecting. We joined the festival in a square overlooking the town. Numerous groups of (mainly) youths in brightly-coloured clothes congregated in the square and several of the parties featured men carrying butchered pigs pegged to towers and gaily decorated with vodka bottles and cigarettes. Many of the men were dressed in various types of mask; others wore bright ponchos and most of the girls wore equally vivid wide skirts that bellowed out impressively as they danced. There were also at least half a dozen bands similar to the one Zoe and I saw at the weekend in Chugchilan. The accounts of South American festivals that I'd read beforehand all seem to feature people of outstanding grace and beauty; this one didn't, but since everyone was good-natured and enthusiastic it didn't matter.
Once most of the groups had convened on the square an obscure ritual took place in which several of the participants led by a masked man theatrically wielding a large chequered flag made repeating presentations to a group of men dressed in period military costume at the foot of a tower topped by a huge Madonna. Amongst all of this circled the Mama Negra figures (there were at least three), sometimes on foot and sometimes on horseback. I'm told that these are in some way related to the Virgin but you'd struggle to see how: they are guys dressed up as women with black face masks who squirt the crowd with cologne-perfumed milk dispensed from a rubber bulb.
After this initial part of the festival we had lunch at one of the small stands that carve meat and crackling from whole roast pigs and serve it up with orange mashed potato, corn and lettuce. Washed down with the local beer it was actually delicious.
After lunch Mercedes and Nestor, who knew absolutely everyone, led us ahead of the parade to a spot on a street corner from where we could watch all of the groups and bands dance past. Every so often a figure would come up to us, usually in costume, and press a shot of cane sugar alcohol upon us. I only had three or four shots - to see out of curiosity whether the orange, green and purple shots had different flavours (they don't) - but Jason had twice as many and Mercedes and Nestor accepted every one offered, which must have been a dozen. As they downed more and more our jokes about Nestor's fitness to drive us home assumed less levity. Nestor's solution was simple: he munched on roasted corn bites that the cane rum donors provided and that he claimed would hide the smell of alcohol on his breath if he were stopped by the police. The chances of him being stopped by the police, though, were slim: not only did he apparently know them all and enjoy a sort of paternal leverage, they were drinking the shots too.
When the parade wound up we went into town for a couple of hours, thinking that we could do some chores while Nestor might hopefully enjoy a restorative nap. Our first errand was to get some cash from an ATM, which is neither possible nor especially necessary in the environs of Chugchilan. The national currency in Ecuador is now the US Dollar. They abolished their own currency in 2000, when for six months all domestic currency savings accounts were frozen without warning, during which time the currency, and thus the funds, devalued by some huge amount (~50%). Michelle says that this episode wiped out the middle classes in Ecuador, leaving a bigger divide between the rich (who had enough resources and/or offshore accounts to weather the transition) and the poor. Since then, despite political instability (according to Nestor and others no President has remained in office for more than two years) the adoption of the dollar has been beneficial for those that have many of them - inflation, which averaged 38% between 1998 and 2003 is now down to 8%.
After the ATM run we went to an internet cafe and had a short but useful burst of mail catch-up, with a fast link that didn't sporadically disconnect. (BTW, any idea why anyone still uses, as all internet cafes seem to, Internet Explorer instead of Firefox, which is nicer, more secure and doesn't keep pushing unwanted pop-ups at you?)
While we were hanging around in the central square for Nestor we noticed that quite a few of the townies were wearing Western-style dress, which we don't see in the hills.
The drive back was as enjoyable as the drive to Latacunga. From the higher land we had clear views over to the snow-topped Cotopaxi volcano, which peaks at just under 6,000m. The campesinos were still everywhere very much in evidence with their llamas, cows, goats and pigs, and many of them seemed to be doing their laundry - this being another activity, like dog-training, arable farming and cattle herding that is accomplished through the beating of a stick. Many of the boys and men were playing volleyball on courts improvised on rectangles of flat land; this, rather than soccer, seems to be the demotic sport here. We escaped the violent burst of thunder, rain and lightning that had swept over Chugchilan, and although there were no signs of the downpour until we were close to the BSI, sections of the narrow steep-sided track from Quilotoa had been further restricted by small landslides, presumably the result of fierce winds.
As we drove back we quizzed Nestor about the life of the locals, with Jason, excused after an hour or so of swapping recitations of highlights from The Simpsons with Zoe and Heidi, translating. As I've written before, the simple dwellings of the campesinos, built with adobe or cinder block, dot the fields all around here. It surprises me that they are all served with mains water, which they are, let alone electricity, which is now provided to them all, cheaply, by a US utility. Nestor confirmed what Michelle had told us, and which we can see for ourselves through the open doors in the gloaming, that they all have TV. Apparently their favourite shows are Springer-like studio audience confrontations and similarly dramatic South American soaps. The TV's are evidence of a flourishing business in sales through credit, which have generated huge profits for entrepreneurs who load up on electrical goods in Quito then sell them off lorries to the poor people of the Latacunga loop, who pay a daily rate for everything from liquidizers to cars. The purchase of a car or lorry might not be as frivolous as it seems as it could open up new markets for the sale of home-grown produce; however the evidence of my own eyes unquestionably refutes Nestor's assertion, at the height of his early evening rhetoric, that people here make such huge investments.
Moreover Michelle's experience is unequivocal: the people here have no conception at all of the rudiments of business, and it would be surprising if they had gathered such notions from what is manifestly a peasant lifestyle. When Andres and Michelle opened up here the locals met their proposal that people would pay to visit the area with open scepticism; and as the venture succeeded their scepticism only matured into blank incomprehension: they could not understand that the people staying at the Black Sheep Inn were not relatives or friends. All the time Andres and Michelle encouraged the locals to open up a hostal themselves, which eventually, after 5 years of encouragement and commercial evidence, they did (Mama Hilda's was the first, since joined by the Cloud Forest Hostal).
This takes us back to the questions resuscitated at the start of this entry from my blogs in Fez regarding the goals of these "developing" people. I now understand why it's hard to understand: at the heart of the matter is a paradox. The locals, once they've been presented with a vision of greater comfort and wealth, largely as a result of being rendered into a market of one form or another by western commercial interests, can no longer be satisfied with a hard life in an adobe hut. I wouldn't if I were them, and nor would you. Now they want to live like Americans live (GDP per head in Ecuador is $3,340; in the US it's over ten times that at $36,110). But unlike the rare exceptional communities such as the Galapagos Islanders, who have the compelling attraction of their outstanding wildlife, the main asset that the campesinos have is the image of themselves that they can market back to people from the USA and Europe who are disillusioned with precisely the values and lifestyle to which the locals aspire. Pioneers like Michelle and Andres who come to places like this for their own adventures and are in it but not of it can carve out a space on between cultures that enables them to exploit the interchange of symmetrical dissatisfaction of each with what it has and desire for the other. A few others can follow suit. But the inevitable path is that to the extent that the locals get the wealth that they want it will dilute their desirability in the eyes of the westerners that bring it to them. It seems to me that this will lead to increasing disillusionment on both sides.
The central question that could unlock this is the one I mooted from Fez: what distinctive - non-American - value does the local culture have that it might reasonably be able to retain as it becomes richer? The answers may be easy to find if they are assets of landscape, flora or fauna, in which case the questions resolve into matters of conservation that you would hope would be amenable to practical solutions (though even this may be unrealistic in countries lacking established civil services experienced in dealing in such matters). The answers are harder if they are cultural. The only compelling voices I can think of that articulate a clear mission of hanging onto a native cultural identity come from Islam, and they don't all present the best outcomes for those of us interested in a future on this side of heaven.
These are the lucky nuggets of information that can be expressed in relative empirical measures. But if you travel with your eyes open you don't need mathematics to see how peoples' lives vary by geography.
On Thursday Michelle took the girls and me on an errand to the local school in Chugchilan for children from the age of 6 and upwards. While there are children who didn't start school until later than normal and remain there until they are as old as 16, most of the kids move to the next school up at age 12 or 13. School attendance has only recently become compulsory in Ecuador up to age 9. The school day at the school we visited runs from 7:30 to 12:30 with a 30 minute break. The early start is especially severe for those children who have to walk 2.5 to 3 hours to get there. There are 285 students and 7 teachers so class sizes range from 30 to 50. The state provides only the buildings and the teachers' salaries, leaving parents to pay not only for uniforms but also for books and other materials.
We caught the kids on their break, when they were variously running around the playground, playing soccer and eating chocolate-covered bananas or sugary snacks. The kids are tiny: a nine year old boy was dwarfed by Zoe and Heidi who sandwich him in age; the children whom we'd assumed were about three are at all least six.
There is, though, nothing remotely backwards about the material that they're expected to learn. The syllabuses for all subjects are compiled into a single book for each year group, which not only makes a very sensible economy but also forms a satisfying embodiment of the corpus of required knowledge. We browsed and borrowed the books for Heidi's age, Zoe's age and for the older children. I have the Key Stage Two maths syllabus with me from home and the Ecuadorian equivalent is at least as advanced. The elder children, most of whom seem destined to spend their adult days drying corn in the sun and beating seeds from lupin pods with sticks, are taught to be able to extract the square roots of large numbers (e.g. 447,890) that are not exact squares - without a calculator, if you try to do it yourself!
The non-mathematics subjects, from what I can gather reading through the illustrated Spanish, have an admirable treatment of scientific and socio-political topics encountered in everyday life. In a nation whose people are in direct contact with the land for subsistence, some of whose regions we are advised by our government not to visit for fear of volcanic activity and that has relatively recently been at war with its neighbours, contexts for this present themselves perhaps more naturally than they do at home.
In these rural communities, unlike in the towns, there is no local capability to teach the luxuries of English or computing, although Michelle does a little of the latter with the older children.
One topic common to England and Ecuador is nutrition, which everyone reports to be atrocious here, with most of the locals apparently unaware that vegetables should be expected to supplement a diet predominantly formed of starch. (This is one of the many reasons why the Black Sheep Inn is so venerated by travellers - the meals are healthy, varied, filling and tasty.)
Speaking to the issue that at home, amidst the emerging post-Thatcher consensus on educational values, still most separates the muesli-belt metro-socialists and the repressed and repressing Right, children here entering their teenage years are expected to know not only the raw "facts of life" in their aspirational setting of conservative family values but are also taught about homosexuality, transexuality, rape, paedophilia, transvestism and sado-masochism. It's my impression that the church has far less popular influence in Ecuador than it does in other South American countries and that Christian values are idly observed, if at all. Michelle estimates that about 35-40% of couples with children here are unmarried and that there is in addition to this a very high incidence of mothers bringing up children without a father.
A good illustration of the low-impact way in which the people around here have integrated Christianity into their lives is provided by La Mama Negra festival that we saw in Latacunga yesterday. This runs for these four days, when it's primarily targeted at the locals who have finished all of the year's reaping and sowing and are in town for the market. It's re-run in November when there are more gringos kicking around. Even without the festival, the journey to Latacunga would have been worthwhile. We travelled with a new volunteer at the BSI called Jason, whose chattiness and Spanish were both very welcome, and our driver, who had the great Odysseyan name of Nestor (we should have had this name down on our list in case we'd had a boy). The journey took us along the rough road to Quilotoa (from where Paula and I have now both twice walked to the Black Sheep Inn), then to Zumbahua (whose market we visited earlier this month) and then by tarmac road over to Latacunga. After leaving Zumbahau the road rises to 4,000m and everywhere the campesinos can be seen dressed traditionally and driving cattle or working the fields. Yesterday many of them had llamas; on the way back one tiny boy tried to ride his llama, only to be thrown off.
In Latacunga we went first to Nestor's house, which was compact, clean and comfortable and decorated in what we might see as a frilly 1970's kitsch. We picked up Nestor's wife, Mercedes, and drove to a spot convenient for the festivities. En route we passed through a police line, which Mercedes and Nestor seemed to tell the young officers they had no intention of respecting. We joined the festival in a square overlooking the town. Numerous groups of (mainly) youths in brightly-coloured clothes congregated in the square and several of the parties featured men carrying butchered pigs pegged to towers and gaily decorated with vodka bottles and cigarettes. Many of the men were dressed in various types of mask; others wore bright ponchos and most of the girls wore equally vivid wide skirts that bellowed out impressively as they danced. There were also at least half a dozen bands similar to the one Zoe and I saw at the weekend in Chugchilan. The accounts of South American festivals that I'd read beforehand all seem to feature people of outstanding grace and beauty; this one didn't, but since everyone was good-natured and enthusiastic it didn't matter.
Once most of the groups had convened on the square an obscure ritual took place in which several of the participants led by a masked man theatrically wielding a large chequered flag made repeating presentations to a group of men dressed in period military costume at the foot of a tower topped by a huge Madonna. Amongst all of this circled the Mama Negra figures (there were at least three), sometimes on foot and sometimes on horseback. I'm told that these are in some way related to the Virgin but you'd struggle to see how: they are guys dressed up as women with black face masks who squirt the crowd with cologne-perfumed milk dispensed from a rubber bulb.
After this initial part of the festival we had lunch at one of the small stands that carve meat and crackling from whole roast pigs and serve it up with orange mashed potato, corn and lettuce. Washed down with the local beer it was actually delicious.
After lunch Mercedes and Nestor, who knew absolutely everyone, led us ahead of the parade to a spot on a street corner from where we could watch all of the groups and bands dance past. Every so often a figure would come up to us, usually in costume, and press a shot of cane sugar alcohol upon us. I only had three or four shots - to see out of curiosity whether the orange, green and purple shots had different flavours (they don't) - but Jason had twice as many and Mercedes and Nestor accepted every one offered, which must have been a dozen. As they downed more and more our jokes about Nestor's fitness to drive us home assumed less levity. Nestor's solution was simple: he munched on roasted corn bites that the cane rum donors provided and that he claimed would hide the smell of alcohol on his breath if he were stopped by the police. The chances of him being stopped by the police, though, were slim: not only did he apparently know them all and enjoy a sort of paternal leverage, they were drinking the shots too.
When the parade wound up we went into town for a couple of hours, thinking that we could do some chores while Nestor might hopefully enjoy a restorative nap. Our first errand was to get some cash from an ATM, which is neither possible nor especially necessary in the environs of Chugchilan. The national currency in Ecuador is now the US Dollar. They abolished their own currency in 2000, when for six months all domestic currency savings accounts were frozen without warning, during which time the currency, and thus the funds, devalued by some huge amount (~50%). Michelle says that this episode wiped out the middle classes in Ecuador, leaving a bigger divide between the rich (who had enough resources and/or offshore accounts to weather the transition) and the poor. Since then, despite political instability (according to Nestor and others no President has remained in office for more than two years) the adoption of the dollar has been beneficial for those that have many of them - inflation, which averaged 38% between 1998 and 2003 is now down to 8%.
After the ATM run we went to an internet cafe and had a short but useful burst of mail catch-up, with a fast link that didn't sporadically disconnect. (BTW, any idea why anyone still uses, as all internet cafes seem to, Internet Explorer instead of Firefox, which is nicer, more secure and doesn't keep pushing unwanted pop-ups at you?)
While we were hanging around in the central square for Nestor we noticed that quite a few of the townies were wearing Western-style dress, which we don't see in the hills.
The drive back was as enjoyable as the drive to Latacunga. From the higher land we had clear views over to the snow-topped Cotopaxi volcano, which peaks at just under 6,000m. The campesinos were still everywhere very much in evidence with their llamas, cows, goats and pigs, and many of them seemed to be doing their laundry - this being another activity, like dog-training, arable farming and cattle herding that is accomplished through the beating of a stick. Many of the boys and men were playing volleyball on courts improvised on rectangles of flat land; this, rather than soccer, seems to be the demotic sport here. We escaped the violent burst of thunder, rain and lightning that had swept over Chugchilan, and although there were no signs of the downpour until we were close to the BSI, sections of the narrow steep-sided track from Quilotoa had been further restricted by small landslides, presumably the result of fierce winds.
As we drove back we quizzed Nestor about the life of the locals, with Jason, excused after an hour or so of swapping recitations of highlights from The Simpsons with Zoe and Heidi, translating. As I've written before, the simple dwellings of the campesinos, built with adobe or cinder block, dot the fields all around here. It surprises me that they are all served with mains water, which they are, let alone electricity, which is now provided to them all, cheaply, by a US utility. Nestor confirmed what Michelle had told us, and which we can see for ourselves through the open doors in the gloaming, that they all have TV. Apparently their favourite shows are Springer-like studio audience confrontations and similarly dramatic South American soaps. The TV's are evidence of a flourishing business in sales through credit, which have generated huge profits for entrepreneurs who load up on electrical goods in Quito then sell them off lorries to the poor people of the Latacunga loop, who pay a daily rate for everything from liquidizers to cars. The purchase of a car or lorry might not be as frivolous as it seems as it could open up new markets for the sale of home-grown produce; however the evidence of my own eyes unquestionably refutes Nestor's assertion, at the height of his early evening rhetoric, that people here make such huge investments.
Moreover Michelle's experience is unequivocal: the people here have no conception at all of the rudiments of business, and it would be surprising if they had gathered such notions from what is manifestly a peasant lifestyle. When Andres and Michelle opened up here the locals met their proposal that people would pay to visit the area with open scepticism; and as the venture succeeded their scepticism only matured into blank incomprehension: they could not understand that the people staying at the Black Sheep Inn were not relatives or friends. All the time Andres and Michelle encouraged the locals to open up a hostal themselves, which eventually, after 5 years of encouragement and commercial evidence, they did (Mama Hilda's was the first, since joined by the Cloud Forest Hostal).
This takes us back to the questions resuscitated at the start of this entry from my blogs in Fez regarding the goals of these "developing" people. I now understand why it's hard to understand: at the heart of the matter is a paradox. The locals, once they've been presented with a vision of greater comfort and wealth, largely as a result of being rendered into a market of one form or another by western commercial interests, can no longer be satisfied with a hard life in an adobe hut. I wouldn't if I were them, and nor would you. Now they want to live like Americans live (GDP per head in Ecuador is $3,340; in the US it's over ten times that at $36,110). But unlike the rare exceptional communities such as the Galapagos Islanders, who have the compelling attraction of their outstanding wildlife, the main asset that the campesinos have is the image of themselves that they can market back to people from the USA and Europe who are disillusioned with precisely the values and lifestyle to which the locals aspire. Pioneers like Michelle and Andres who come to places like this for their own adventures and are in it but not of it can carve out a space on between cultures that enables them to exploit the interchange of symmetrical dissatisfaction of each with what it has and desire for the other. A few others can follow suit. But the inevitable path is that to the extent that the locals get the wealth that they want it will dilute their desirability in the eyes of the westerners that bring it to them. It seems to me that this will lead to increasing disillusionment on both sides.
The central question that could unlock this is the one I mooted from Fez: what distinctive - non-American - value does the local culture have that it might reasonably be able to retain as it becomes richer? The answers may be easy to find if they are assets of landscape, flora or fauna, in which case the questions resolve into matters of conservation that you would hope would be amenable to practical solutions (though even this may be unrealistic in countries lacking established civil services experienced in dealing in such matters). The answers are harder if they are cultural. The only compelling voices I can think of that articulate a clear mission of hanging onto a native cultural identity come from Islam, and they don't all present the best outcomes for those of us interested in a future on this side of heaven.
Posted: Sun - September 25, 2005 at 02:56 AM
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Published On: Feb 08, 2006 06:20 PM
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Published On: Feb 08, 2006 06:20 PM